Swing
by ikhny
Summary: Summer heat, a swing, and revelation? RxA


The swing creaks. I turn my head a little to see who's sitting there -- sweaty, smelly boy martial artists are strewn all over my porch. It's Ranma, who's thrown his arm over his eyes and lain himself prone, letting one of his legs rest on the floorboard. He's too tall for it to drag. He isn't swinging. I close my eyes and reposition my head so the splinter from the porch-post won't scalp me. It's too hot to breathe, and the fan Kasumi set outside the door as she left is just noisemaking. I can't feel any breeze - no wind, no movement. We're all held motionless and sticky in this heat, thick and humid. Ryouga's stepped over me to fall onto the the floor by the swing, leaning against the wall and pulling one of his bandannas down over his eyes. Mousse is lying on the other end with an arm dangling off the edge of the porch, mumbling about getting up and pedaling back to work for fear of old crones and beautiful, purple waitresses. Tarou is sitting in my father's chair, nearest me, by the door, and every now and then he reaches out to test the fan, moving his fingers in a wave in front of the spinning. I giggle, looking at them.

"What?" Tarou grunts. He lets his hand drop to his knee. I guess I haven't looked away from him.

"Nothing. You guys." I laugh again. "You're all moping around in my way. Who invited you, anyway? Aren't you supposed to be scouring the alleyways for leaping lechers?"

He slides a little lower in the seat. "Make us some lemonade," he says. "It's scorching."

"Make it yourself," I giggle, and close my eyes again. The heat is so lulling, I just want to sleep.

"What a woman you have, Saotome," he says, and laughs. My mouth twitches. "This one's so uppity."

"We're all of us uppity. I'm just the one he gives grief over it." I stick my tongue out, my right hand splayed on the first step.

Ryouga groans, and I look over. I forget, occasionally, how large he is, and when I look at him I think about crazy American horror movies where the men are lost in jungles, being preyed on by alien-chameleons. "Ryouga-kun, lemonade?" I ask, feeling sorry for him because he looks so miserable. It doesn't help, I'm sure, that he didn't win his fight against Ranma, who hasn't stirred in the swing for a while. I think about the hammock in the yard, and how if it weren't so incredibly, blisteringly hot Ranma might be out there, under the tree with his shirt off. Ryouga sits up straighter and manages thanks and an apology, forever polite to me in a way no one else has been, except maybe Touma, and even he had the whole 'marry me or no one!' element.

I rebrace my hand on the step and clasp the other to my thigh as I get up to keep my skirt from rising too high, which doesn't prove to be all that necessary because of the cling of sweat. I step over Mousse's prone, snoring form and Ryouga's legs to get to the swing, where I tap Ranma's knee and wait for him to move. "Ern?" he grunts, and I giggle, wondering why I'm so giggly, and if there is such a thing as heat madness. "Scooch," I say, and push his other leg to the floor.

"Akaneee.." he says peevishly.

"I want to swing for a minute and stir the air up a bit, and then I'll go make lemonade. Besides, this is my swing."

"Don't all possessions go to the male in your situation?" Tarou grins.

"Shut up," I say, now sitting beside Ranma on the swing. "We're not married, and even if we were, that's unfair. You wouldn't take my things, would you, Ranma?"

"Of course I would," he says, placing his arm over his eyes again. "You owe me."

"What?!"

"For the rescues and the failed meals and the general uncuteness I have to put up with."

"And what about what you owe me?"

"Like what?"

"If I owe you for those things, you have to compensate for the other girls, the emotional torture I go through during the scrapes YOU get me into, and the general MALEness I have to put up with, right? Isn't that only fair?" I stick my tongue out again. This time, though, my target is immature enough to stick his out back.

"Pantyhose's right," he says, sitting up and reaching out to knock my shoulder. "You're uppity."

I smile a little and lean back, pushing the ground with my shoes. The swing doesn't budge. Ranma's legs are stretched out, and he's smirking at me through the heat, sweat rolling down his neck into the open collar of one of his lighter blue shirts. He's so playful today, I think, pinching his arm, the one he's got draped on the back of the swing. Maybe it's winning the fight, or not having to worry about his enemies since they're lying at his feet, just as tired as he is. Maybe it's heat madness. Maybe we're both suffering from it, maybe that's why I shiver a little when he halfheartedly pinches me back, on my neck. Maybe it's to blame for the way he's looking at me now that he's changed positions, bringing his legs to lay on my lap. And my breathless laughter dies in my throat and I look down at his pants, picking at the tattering seams. "I think I'll go make the lemonade," I say, prodding his calf and rising up before he's had a chance to move.

"I'll come help you," he says, and it's the heat, I know it is, responsible for the way his voice sounds when it reaches my ears: lazy and hot and thick. I stand to maneuver over Ryouga again, and I almost jump out of my skin when I feel Ranma push the shoulder strap of my dress up from where it had fallen, low down on my arm. I'm suddenly aware of the whoosh of air behind me as I move, as he moves, rushing over my beaded skin in what was, seconds before, sure stillness.

My eyes adjust poorly in the darkness of the foyer, and I almost trip over the fan's cord when I pass the threshhold. I hear Ranma kicking off his slippers and following me to the kitchen. Without even turning around, I say, "Could you get the glasses?" When he doesn't say anything, but I hear the cabinet creaking open, I laugh. "This is so strange! You're silently taking orders AND helping in the kitchen. I guess the heat _can_ make people do and say things they wouldn't normally do." The faucet is running, now, and I'm wetting two of Kasumi's freshly washed dish rags; two I think she can spare. I turn and look at him for the first time since we left the swing. He's leaning against the counter, arms crossed and staring at me. We didn't turn the lights on when we came in because we were escaping the summer glare, but now I wish it wasn't so dark. The look in his eyes is so much more intense because it's shining through the shadow at me, making me lose my nerve and turn back to the sink. "Here," I say, reaching the cool and dripping rag back to him, over my shoulder.

"Thanks," he says, grabbing my wrist and spinning me around like we're dancing. I laugh again.

"It's too hot to move!" I exclaim, pushing him away and reaching for the lemonade mix on the counter.

"Akane," he says, slipping ice into three of our best glasses.

"Ern?" I tease.

"D'ya think we'll ever die?" And he's not looking at me, just rubbing the back of his neck with Kasumi's wet rag, staring at the countertop.

"What?" I try a giggle, but it won't come. He looks too serious. "Ranma..."

"I mean, I feel so...when I fight, you know? When there's dust and sweat and speed and adrenaline...Especially when I win. I feel like I'll live forever."

I can't help it. I just stare at him for a minute, the rag dripping droopily in my hand.

"And when I look at you..." He lets his hand drop to his side, and he's giving me that shadowy look again. I feel like I want to cry, because I know someday he'll die, I know I'll die -- I've tasted it already by phoenix fire. I look down at my hands, twisting the rag tightly enough to strain the thread. "When I look at you..." And I look up, trying to say to him with my eyes that I _know_, I understand. When I look at you, I think, I don't think we'll ever grow old or die or fade away. Before I can say it, though, before I know he's moved, he's leaned toward me and grabbed my upper arms. Without thinking, I stammer, "S-shouldn't I make the lemonade?"

He stops moving in toward me, closer, but his palms are burning on my arms and the heat from his body is scorching like he's on fire, enveloped in raging battle chi...


End file.
